


All I Want

by StarlightAndFireflies



Series: Caffeine and Courage [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fireplaces, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hot Chocolate, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Romance, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson in Love, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-12 06:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12953568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: Exams are over, Christmas is right around the corner, and John Watson has big plans. A short incredibly fluffy conclusion. This is literally nothing but fluff.





	All I Want

John heard footsteps on the stairs. He surveyed the room quickly to ensure he had laid out everything the way he had wanted to. Their small Christmas tree sparkled in the corner of the room with a small pile of gifts nestled underneath, and strings of fairy lights over the fireplace and the doorway to the kitchen cast a festive glow upon the entire space. The hearth held a crackling fire, the floor in front of it coated with every blanket and pillow in the flat. A radio played Christmas music softly in the background. When he concentrated, John could hear some of the lyrics.

“I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know…”

 _Mariah_ , he thought, _you have no idea how scarily timed you are_.

He turned from the radio and gave the room one last sweeping glance as the knob turned. He smiled with satisfaction to himself. Everything looked perfect. Now he just had to hope everything went to plan.

Right on cue, the door swung open to reveal a ruffled consulting detective, wrapped in his usual dark coat and neck concealed by an old, ratty green scarf. Faint circles rested under his eyes, and a general air of exhaustion emanated from the young man.

Upon spotting John, however, Sherlock smiled. He shrugged off his outerwear, hung them on the stand, and stepped forward. John met him halfway and pulled him close. Sherlock's response was to immediately slump into the embrace with a quiet groan. John laughed a bit as Sherlock, apparently giving up on standing on his own, slid toward the floor until his knees landed with a thud on the floor. They stayed there for a moment, Sherlock with his head pressed against John's belly, John with his arms around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Last exam, love. How was it?" John asked.

"I'm free," said Sherlock's muffled voice.

John chuckled, pulled Sherlock back to his feet, and eased them onto the blanketed floor in front of the softly crackling fire.

"You passed, I know you did," John said once he'd got them situated. Sherlock preferred to have his hair stroked after a difficult day, though John knew he'd never admit it as long as he lived. Fully aware of this secret though, John arranged them so Sherlock stretched out perpendicular to John with his curly-haired head resting on John's lap. The latter sprawled with his legs out straight, facing the fire so he could soak in its warmth.

"I know I did too," Sherlock smirked. He wrapped his long fingers around John's calf and squeezed lightly. He yawned. "Doesn't mean this wasn't a stressful week. I had four thousand words to write in total for my essays, three exams to study for, a case to solve, and to top it all off, I barely saw _you_ because of all that."

"Yeah, you had a bit on your plate," John grinned down at him, feeling fondness well up inside him as Sherlock smiled back.

"It's almost over now though," Sherlock murmured. He closed his eyes, turned onto his side slightly, and nuzzled into John's thigh. Above him, John smirked in triumph; he'd worn those soft pyjama pants specifically because he knew they were Sherlock's favorites.

"Actually it _is_ all over now," he corrected, and when Sherlock opened an eye to peer up at him, he continued. "Lestrade called a while ago. Couldn't get hold of you because you were in your exam so he had to try me. Not that he was overly thrilled about that."

"Why not?"

"I don't think he's ever entirely forgiven me for how I reacted to the whole... Sebastian thing," John admitted as he smoothed the locks of hair off Sherlock's forehead. "He sounded kind of... I don't know, terse."

"He is a bit protective of me, isn't he?"

"A bit," John nodded.

Sherlock gazed up at him and squeezed his leg again. "It's not that he doesn't like you..."

"I know, I know. And I can't blame him, really. I just... I mean, it's been a whole year..."

"He'll get over it," Sherlock assured him. "I know you're wonderful. He's just slow on the uptake, as in most things."

They chuckled then fell silent, both listening to the fire and enjoying their respective roles in the stroking of the hair.

"What did he want?" Sherlock asked after a few minutes. His eyes were still closed, though his hand was now making slow sliding motions up and down the underside of John's calf. He seemed less exhausted now, more blissfully lethargic. It appeared his tiredness had given away to a relaxed, good mood.

"Who?"

"Lestrade."

"Oh, right. Just to tell you they got the bloke thanks to your tip. Simon, yeah?"

"Mm, yeah," Sherlock nodded. "Good. Mrs. Tierney will be thrilled he’s been brought to justice. It'll get her off my back, too, which will be a relief to all involved parties. Honestly, sometimes it was like she was more concerned about recovering her art collection and flirting with me than finding her nephew’s murderer…”

John giggled. "She'll probably send you flowers and chocolates in gratitude. Maybe a personal delivery."

"Ugh," Sherlock grimaced. "Heaven forbid."

"Or, perhaps a heartfelt card," John teased. " 'Dearest Sherlock...' "

"John, no!" Sherlock half-groaned, half-laughed.

" 'I'm oh so relieved you've caught my dear Terry's killer,' " John pressed on in an overly high-pitched impression of the curvaceous sexagenarian they'd pushed on Lestrade just to get her out of their hair. " 'And my precious art! Oh, Sherlock, you devilishly handsome thing, take any of the paintings you desire. You've earned them! And maybe come on a date with me too, darling-' "

"John!" Sherlock stopped his calf-rubbing and sat up, shoulders shaking from uncontrollable laughter. "Stop, that's disgusting!"

"Am I wrong though? It was pretty clear she'd love to get her hands on a piece of your-"

"John!" Sherlock's cheeks turned pink in an instant, though for all his pretending at offense, he was still laughing.

" 'Come here, handsome thing,' " John crooned, switching back to the fake voice, pulling Sherlock in by the collar of his teal shirt. " 'Give me a kiss, pretty.' "

"Ugh," Sherlock giggled and squirmed. "I am not kissing you while you sound like that."

John gave him a flirty look, just a slight curl of his lips and twitch of his eyebrow. "How would you rather have me sound?" He dropped his voice just a touch below its normal register and watched Sherlock's eyes darken with desire.

He swooped in for a kiss then, one that Sherlock quickly - and unexpectedly - took over without hesitation. John let out a soft moan as he was pressed back into the mound of pillows and had his mouth plundered by Sherlock's enterprising tongue.

When they broke apart, John's chest was rising and falling, and not from laughter. Sherlock beamed at him, smugness written all over him.

"Breathless," he whispered. "I'd rather have you sound breathless from kissing me, John Watson."

"Bloody hell," John sighed.

Sherlock smirked and backed up enough for John to sit up again, fighting off his blush.

"So what is all this for?" he asked with a vague gesture at the surrounding coziness.

"Well," John rubbed the back of his neck. "I just thought, since you're through with school until next term starts in a month, and I've got the weekend off before the crazy Christmas incidents next week... I thought it'd be nice to, you know, celebrate. Spend some time, just the two of us."

Sherlock's countenance softened. "You're such a sentimentalist."

"You don't mind," John settled back onto the pillows.

"No," Sherlock admitted. "To everyone's surprise, I don't."

"Not to my surprise. I reckon I know you pretty well by now."

Sherlock stretched out his legs next to his boyfriend's, and the detective hooked one around John's ankle as he reclined beside John.

"You do know me," he placed his hand on John's bicep and met his gaze. "Better than anyone."

They beamed at each other for a moment, probably like idiots, but John couldn't be fussed. He felt they deserved some calm, especially after the madness of the last few weeks, at the hospital and uni respectively.

Nor had it helped when two weeks ago Mycroft had called about a fight and a stabbing in a prison in the outskirts of London. Sherlock had answered and gone still, shoulders slumping in surprise and relief as he’d sought John’s gaze.

Sebastian Moran would not bother them again.

Upon hearing this news Sherlock had been quiet all evening, lost in contemplation. John hadn't pressed him. He knew thinking about the man brought back bad memories, ones full of fear and distress. So John had stayed close but did not intrude. Then, while they had sat on the sofa together, Sherlock's head had dropped to John's shoulder. John had turned from his novel to find Sherlock watching him, an undefinable look on his face. John had reached over and gently began rubbing the back of Sherlock's neck.

"Alright, love?"

Sherlock had inclined his head, eyes closing in response to the massage. "I'm fine."

And when he'd opened his eyes, it somehow felt like a new chapter of their life had started.

"Hey," John said, dragging himself back to the present a few moments later. "How about some tea or coffee, or... I don't know, maybe hot cocoa?"

Sherlock chuckled. "You really like that drink-making gizmo, don't you? Even though it's technically mine?"

"Well, yeah," John shrugged and struggled out of the enticing grasp of the pillows, blankets, and boyfriend's hands. "It's a magical creation. Besides, I'm making one of the drinks for you. So it's fine."

Sherlock lounged farther across the expanse of softness. "True. In that case... hot cocoa?"

"Coming right up."

John clattered about the kitchen, feeling serene. The holidays were always mad at the hospital, and combine that with exams and essays and study sessions, this time of year meant Sherlock and John hardly saw one another beyond brief exchanges in the mornings and evenings. Now, though, with the prospect of an entire weekend with no obligations but to one another, John's mood lifted a significant amount.

Ever since nearly losing Sherlock - the attentions of a vengeful stalker only somewhat to blame - John had fought to do better, to be there more, to text during breaks and on public transport. He'd made conscious effort to put Sherlock first, make their relationship the priority it had been in the early stages. And in turn, Sherlock had worked hard to open up more, share his feelings and worries and events in his daily life.

All in all, John concluded they were both doing well. In fact, he couldn't remember having been happier in all his life.

He hoped it wasn't just him. He hoped desperately, while he added dollops of whipped cream and sprinkles of cinnamon to their drinks, that Sherlock felt the same way.

After all, he was gambling rather a lot on that assumption.

Carrying their steaming drinks with caution, John navigated back from the kitchen to their blanket kingdom and paused to gaze down at his boyfriend.

His boyfriend, who had sprawled out on the entire space, limbs a complete disaster. He looked as though he'd thrown himself, spread-eagled, through the air and landed face-first on the pile.

"Ah, so romantic," John drawled. "Really, I'm feeling so seduced right now."

"What?" Sherlock's voice was muffled; he hadn't bothered to turn his head to speak into the open air. "You don't like the view?" He wiggled his hips slightly.

John rolled his eyes as he placed the drinks on the table next to his armchair and sat down. "Believe me, I do," he glanced down at Sherlock, then back up. _Self-control, Watson_. "But I'd much rather like to have some space on the blankets too, not just look at you being all comfortable. So budge over."

Sherlock raised his head to reveal a smile. "I suppose that's acceptable," he quipped.

"Oh, is it? Glad you approve," John giggled, and Sherlock moved over to accommodate him. They relaxed into each other, the feel of each other snuggled together as familiar to them as their own reflections. John extracted a blanket from next to him and draped it over them both. Sherlock burrowed in deeper with a sigh of contentment, punctuated by a soft moan when John handed him his cocoa and he got a whiff.

"This is..." he paused to take a sip. "Fantastic."

John grinned at the rare praise; Sherlock's compliments of anything were usually understated or in the form of a mere nod.

"Thanks," he kissed the top of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock snuggled in closer and they drank in silence for a while. John watched the flames crackle and consume the logs he'd staked in the fireplace. As they ate up the blackening wood, he considered what he was about to do. Was it insane? Maybe, but he'd already decided upon this course of action. He wouldn’t feel right abandoning it now.

Sherlock's phone pinged. "Hmm," he chuckled after glancing at the text. "Lestrade. Making sure you told me what he said and thanking me for the help."

"He really doesn't trust me." Though they'd covered this many times before, John still felt a twinge of guilty discomfort.

"He's just cautious."

"Because he doesn't trust me."

"Well..." Sherlock trailed off then heaved a sigh. "Fine, maybe not entirely."

John bit his lip. He could feel Sherlock watching him but couldn't bring himself to look into those fathomless eyes. "I think we're doing a lot better. I think we've come far since then," he murmured.

Sherlock shifted so he could brush his lips against John's jaw. "I think so too. We're... happy."

He pronounced the last word as though it had previously been a foreign concept. The thought that Sherlock had spent so many years thinking he did not deserve or would never receive love made John's heart twist in his rib cage.

"I've never been happier," John whispered, giving Sherlock a squeeze.

The consulting detective smiled broadly and curled up again against John, head on his shoulder. His proximity, and John's emotions so close to the surface, made his nerves again go into overdrive. The moment was coming soon.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. "Your heart's beating rather fast."

His fingers were still on John's arm, near enough to the pulse point in his wrist for him - perceptive as always - to notice. John twitched his arm away under the pretense of scratching his nose.

"I'm fine," he bluffed.

Sherlock scoffed. "You're..." He sat up and scanned John's face with his keen eyes. "Nervous. What's the matter?"

John sucked in a slow breath. “There’s just… something I wanted to talk to you about. Nothing bad, just… important.”

Sherlock’s forehead creased, that subtle expression of confusion John usually found so endearing. “What is it?”

John cleared his throat. Oh God, was this the worst plan he had ever had?

“John?” Sherlock pressed, his hands finding John’s. “You can talk to me.”

“I know,” John exhaled. “I just… I don’t know how to begin.”

“Well…” Sherlock was still frowning. “What is this about?”

“Us,” John swallowed. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers under the blanket. “I kind of… want to ask you something.” He laughed, though it came out strangled and not at all genuine. More hysterical than anything else. “Not that I’m being particularly smooth about it. Usually people have speeches prepared, grand gestures, things like that...”

But it seemed his fumbling had inadvertently done the trick; Sherlock’s eyes were widening, his lips parting in surprise.

“John, are you…?” He gulped, face still the picture of stupefaction. “Are you about to propose to me?”

John gave a frantic nod. “I… yes, I… maybe? I… I thought, I mean, I’ve been thinking about it for a while… but… I don’t know… this might not be a good idea. Bloody hell, what was I thinking?” He groaned and buried his face in his hands.

This was not going to plan at all. He had seen enough rom-coms to know how he was supposed to be, with flowers and bent knee and sappy speeches, but… But this was Sherlock, not some caricatured woman, and he was John, not the lovesick man of all those films. And he couldn’t even string together a full sentence. Maybe he should have bought a ring… that might have made his intentions clear without having to say the words… but he’d been so sure Sherlock wouldn’t want one… But what if he was wrong? What if he was wrong about all this?

He heard Sherlock huff out a little laugh, and glanced up through his fingers. Oh… had he said all that aloud?

To John’s astonishment, Sherlock was starting to smile, all traces of shock gone. “You’re right. I hardly think an engagement ring is my style,” he said, lifted his left hand, and examined it idly, as if he weren’t discussing one of the most important topics in the world. “Although, when we get married, we can have rings. Those I won’t mind.”

John blinked. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Sherlock met his gaze, a little confusion seeping into his features. “John?”

“ _When_ we get married?” John’s voice was higher than normal, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest.

Sherlock’s smile widened. “You heard me. So, what are you waiting for?”

Apparently, it was John’s turn to be astounded. He gaped at Sherlock for several seconds as those words sunk in. “Wha… really?” he breathed.

Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink, but he beamed. “Really. Did...?” His smile dropped, and his expression softened. “Did… did you think I’d not want this?”

John kissed his knuckles, shrugging and fighting back his borderline-panic. "I… I just was worried we’re rushing things too much, I guess."

"We've been dating for almost three years," Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Right, but we're still pretty young."

"People have gotten married at our age. Of course in past centuries, the age of marriage was in general much lower-"

"Right," John cut him off, crinkling his nose. "But still. This isn't the past few centuries, this is now."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "It doesn't seem too early."

"Are you sure?" John pressed, unable to stop himself feeling a bit anxious. This felt nothing like how the movies made it seem...

"Yes, I am." Sherlock's eyes were gentle. "We love one another."

"Sherlock, you're only nineteen."

"I'm going to be twenty in a couple weeks." He lifted an eyebrow. “And my age doesn’t preclude my ability to know how I feel about you.”

"Yeah, but… maybe it's sort of early to be talking about... _forever_ , isn't it?" John's heart pounded in his chest, perhaps trying to hammer its way out so it could lodge in Sherlock's rib cage instead, where it belonged. Now that he considered all the angles of a marriage proposal, he just wasn’t sure if it was the best move. Luckily, Sherlock seemed to accept his role of talking John down.

"We can just have a long engagement until we're both fully ready. Maybe once we both have settled into our careers," Sherlock suggested with a slight eye roll, as if John were a slow child who kept insisting that one and one could not equal two. However, he moved close and laid his hands on John’s shoulders comfortingly. "I... I never thought I'd say this, but... I find myself rather taken with the idea of declaring myself permanently to you." His face turned a positively adorable shade of pinkish-red as he spoke. "Forever with you does not sound impossible.”

Then, he looked away as if suddenly aware of his brightening cheeks. "Listen to me," he huffed. "You've made me all... saccharine."

"Sherlock, I've kind of been trying to talk myself into making a big deal sort of declaration for ages. If anyone's being saccharine, it's me." He smiled.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “But are you actually building up to the question? Because from where I’m sitting, you still sound rather undecided.”

Now John was blushing too through his smile. “Look, I just… I’ve been thinking about this for, like, months. I like the idea, more than like it, and I thought... this might be a good time, but… now that the moment’s here… I’m kind of panicking. And apparently repeating my own arguments. Please stop me.”

Sherlock blinked at him, something in his eyes intense and immobilizing, laced with a bit of amusement and affection. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to John’s lips. “John, I love you. If you propose to me right now, or in a year, or decades from now, you can be sure of my answer. Unless you think I’m too young to make such a decision.” The corner of his lip quirked upward.

John managed a soft laugh at that. “I… I do want to ask you. And I definitely want to ask you soon.” He couldn’t tear his gaze away from Sherlock as he inhaled slowly. “Do… _do_ you want me to ask you right now?”

Sherlock’s expression was gentle. "John. I want you to ask me when you’re ready. Although... “ he swallowed. “To be entirely honest, I… I like the thought of you asking me now. Only if you want, of course. Just know… even if we wait years to actually get married, I don't mind having declared our intentions to officially commit early on."

John gave a small nod, relieved. "Good. I'm glad we're agreed."

"We are," Sherlock acknowledged with light peck on the cheek. "Now. Ask me already. If you want.”

John took a deep breath.

And then, as he gazed at Sherlock, all his nervousness suddenly faded away. Sherlock was watching him with a small smile, with his hands clutching at John’s, with a sparkle of delight in his oceanic eyes. The memory of his earlier words came back to John then, another dose of courage through his blood.

“ _When we get married…_ ”

And all at once, saying the words was the easiest thing in the world, as easy as lending coffee to the chemistry student from upstairs, as easy as leaning up to kiss your study partner after acing a test. Saying the words was as easy as hugging your boyfriend after a criminal tried to take him from you, as easy as him forgiving you for leaving him alone.

“Sherlock,” he said. “Will you marry me?”

The smile on his boyfriend’s lips spread, until it was a grin filled with joy and wonder. Sherlock’s voice shook slightly as he gripped John’s hands harder than ever.

“Yes John, I will.”

A laugh burst from John’s lips, loud and exuberant. Sherlock’s baritone voice joined him, laughter pealing from him too. John crushed him into his chest, and they both soon crumbled into a mess of tangled limbs under the blanket, both shaking with laughter. Their lips met in messy kisses, then skittered across one another’s faces, necks, hands, any bit they could reach, laughing all the while. John’s chest heaved, heart pounded, and his thoughts flowed through him, effervescent with euphoria.

_We’re getting married._

Several minutes passed before either of them was calm enough to speak, but finally they settled down, still wrapped around one another in their warm nest.

Sherlock was the first to speak. “John,” he sighed, nuzzling into his chest.

“Yes my Sherlock?”

“I love you,” Sherlock smiled up at him, an almost shy look.

John kissed his forehead. “I love you too. I can’t wait to marry you.”

Sherlock raised a teasing eyebrow. “I thought we just agreed to wait at least a couple years.”

“Oh, shut it,” John laughed. “You know what I mean.”

Sherlock’s smirk was mischievous and bright. “I know. I can’t wait either.”

He laid his head back down, and John held him just a bit tighter. Only a few days away was Christmas, which would surely be full of smiles and laughter, but beyond that John hardly knew what to expect. Sherlock's birthday was soon, winter would end, and someday they would be married. But the particulars John hadn't planned for. At the moment, he wasn't bothered by that. His plan had gone well, and he hadn’t felt the need to plan any farther.

They'd be married someday. Knowing that was enough.

John smiled as Sherlock nosed at his throat and dropped dozens of light kisses onto his skin. Their engagement was set, which was good enough for John, especially when in the present he had a very cuddly fiancé in his arms.

Little was he to know the details of their future.

John didn't yet know how in a few days, on Christmas morning, Sherlock's eyes would light up with pleased surprise when he opened the brand new wool-and-cashmere scarf from John and immediately sling it around his neck. He didn't know how wonderful the resulting kiss would be, as the scarf - a sapphire shade that so reminded John of Sherlock’s eyes - slid and pressed between them.

He didn't yet know how he would blink back tears when Sherlock would graduate university, how his fiance would look horribly bored during the ceremony but would burst into delighted laughter when John would produce a large bouquet of k-cups afterward.

He didn't yet know how they would continue to consult together, even though John would struggle sometimes to balance the hospital and the cases, or how messy their kitchen table would become, coated in the detritus of Sherlock's brilliant experiments and a half-dozen coffee cups.

He didn't yet know about the lost, dirty, tired Irish Setter puppy who would find her way into a nearby alley, how Sherlock would drop to his knees upon seeing her and stay with her for hours until she felt safe enough to approach him, and how she would insinuate her way into their hearts and their home and never let them go.

He didn't yet know how Sherlock would beam at him on their wedding day, both dressed in crisp new suits with matching pocket squares. He didn't yet know how he himself would be brought nearly to tears during their vows, how Lestrade's speech would bring down the house, and how Sherlock's hand - newly clad with a shining silver ring - would never leave his throughout the entire reception.

He didn't yet know about these moments, these events in the rest of their life, both big and small, they would share. For now, all he knew was the promise they'd made, and that was enough.

He leaned down and captured Sherlock’s lips again, and pulled back to gaze at him.

“What?” The corners of Sherlock’s eyes crinkled as he smiled.

“I know we just had cocoa,” John began, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “But I think later we should go out.”

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled. “Why?”

“Coffee date. We’re fiances now, remember? We need to celebrate.”

The grin that lit up Sherlock’s face, John was sure, would rival the lights on their Christmas tree.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Happy holidays!


End file.
